


Recruitment

by Runlights



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brainwashing, Dubious Consent, Dubious Science, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Pre-HYDRA Reveal, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runlights/pseuds/Runlights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HYDRA has an internal policy that all members must make an attempt to recruit others of like-minded interest. Rumlow has his eyes on Jack Rollins, and he is determined to recruit the man to the HYDRA cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recruitment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/gifts).



> This is for the wonderful and inspirational Lauralot, and it is something that I promised a little while ago. I apologize that it has taken me this long to get this out, but it's for you nonetheless. Thank you for being both a support and a horrible enabler. There is nothing quite like letting Rumlow and Rollins out to snipe at each other, and she is the continual cause of it.
> 
> I actually was going to do multiple chapters (3 actually), but I've done Rumlow's recruitment twice now and it seemed redundant to do a third time. So, there is just this. I may add another chapter later on, but for now, it's just this awfulness.
> 
> **There is graphic description of mutilation of bodies. If this bothers you, please skip the middle section in italics.**
> 
> As always, my fics have no beta, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes found within.

***

“We’re making a quick stop before we go to ground,” he said simply. He glanced in the rear-view mirror to the darkened backseat where the Soldier sat in as much of a lounged position as could be expected.

There was no response. There never was when it wasn’t an order or a question that required some kind of verbal acknowledgement. This was just the way working with a living weapon went, and he had accepted it. The honour and the beauty of getting a first-hand view was enough for him to be satisfied.

Rumlow pulled away from the curb, checking his mirrors to make certain that there was no one suspicious in the street. With the mission over, he had to eliminated any possibility that someone might be going to record the license plate or come peering beyond the tinted windows in the back. He didn’t normally drive muscle cars, but it suited the purpose of the mission and better fit into the residential area that they had been working in.

“You’re going to assist me in recruiting someone,” he said just because he could. “I need one for my yearly quota.”

The Winter Soldier shifted slightly in the back seat but otherwise made no reply. He knew the asset was just here to finish the mission and had to be back before sunrise. The Soldier had no preference for where he took the asset. That was how it should be.

Brock took them out of the residential blue collar suburb and onto the interstate. He set his knees under the wheel to free up his hands and pulled out the military grade tracker, setting it for emergency vehicles and then dropping it on the seat beside him. It took a few minutes to collect the data that he was looking for, appearing as coloured dots on the map.

This was really just new stuff. He had been told that he was to be testing it on missions, and aside from being far too big to be concealed easily, it worked well. He could avoid any emergency vehicles registered, or he could find one in particular. It was just too bad it was glitchy and temperamental when the weather was poor.

With the data loaded, he removed ambulance and fire unit activity to be left with only police. It took him a few moments to find the call sign that he was looking for and smirked at the corner of his lips. That wasn’t too far from their current location.

His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror to watch the Winter Soldier’s statue-like vigil in the back seat. Their gazes met in the reflection, and he licked his lips to wet them at the unnerving stare that he received. It always sent tingles down his spine. It was probably a good thing that he didn’t operate on too many solo missions with the asset, or he might live to regret pushing the boundaries once too often.

Rumlow drove, pausing at red lights to keep an eye on the call sign. It was currently stationary, which meant some lame traffic stop.

He still made his approach and pass in the opposite direction as what he was searching for, and his eyes found the very man he was looking for standing at the rear bumper of a stopped vehicle. This time of night it had to be some kind of street racing violation, but he could see the officer writing a ticket. It looked to him in the yellow cast of the street light that ol’ officer Rollins was in a testy mood.

Perfect. That’s the way that he wanted the guy.

HYDRA made it a general business policy that all members took a hand in expanding the organization in some way. Recruitment of like-minded individuals was how the organization grew to what it was today, and it was pressed upon all agents of HYDRA that they were to try to recruit at least one individual a year. There wasn’t a particular punishment for not doing so, but those who continually ignored the practice often found themselves in uncomfortable places or with the worst missions. How could they expect HYDRA to become the world’s only necessary governing body when it wasn’t the largest organization in the first place?

Brock had had his eye on this particular police officer for two years, ever since he had been junior on an operation in Los Angeles that had gone the ultimate side of sour. Normally, he didn’t do many operations in the United States, but the team had been short and he’d been available. He’d seen first hand what a tough son of a bitch the officer in question was.

He’d been keeping his eye on Rollins ever since. Now seemed like the perfect time and opportunity to take a more personal hand in seeing where the man’s interests really lay. He suspected, and he had an informant that had given him some good information that led him in this direction as well.

He turned the car around and brought them up on the same side as the two stopped vehicles. He parked and waited, turning off the tracker and hiding it under the seat. He had found his target. Now he had hours to play.

“Do you remember that guy?” He looked in the rear-view mirror.

“No.” Of course not. The Soldier was a finely tuned killing machine; memory just got in the way.

“He’s the target, but you aren’t to kill him. I want him restrained if things go the way I want them to,” he informed the asset. He received the usual stare that he took to be acknowledgement. “No injury if it can be helped. Understand?”

“Restraint, minimal injury, no killing. Understood, sir,” the Soldier replied evenly.

Brock watched the other man in the mirror a few minutes longer before nodding his head. The asset was in prime working condition, so he didn’t have any qualms about doing this tonight. The mission had gone better than expected, he had a nice window of time and opportunity, and he was feeling pretty good about his chances.

The vehicle that had been stopped and ticketed pulled away from the curb and drove off. He watched the police officer return to the cruiser and sit inside. No doubt making some notes or reporting on the radio. He waited until the cruiser’s engine turned on and let the vehicle roll forward and turn the corner.

He pulled away from the curb himself and followed at a safe distance, but he was aware of the Soldier shifting in the back seat. He ignored it as he stopped at a red light with the cruiser in front of him, tapping his thumb against the top of the steering wheel as if he were listening to music. The officer was not currently paying attention to him he was certain.

The light went green and they proceeded forward. They turned onto a major roadway with two lanes. He jumped into the inside lane and gunned the engine, his palm sliding the gear shift from second to third quickly. His car shot forward until he was matching the police cruiser.

He turned his head and the officer gave him a narrowed eyed stare. Rumlow smirked and flipped up his middle finger before taking his little racer into fourth gear, straddling the speed limit on the margin of too fast. He glanced in his mirror to check for a response.

The police cruiser had signaled and moved into his lane and began to trail him but didn’t put on lights to pull him over. That was it, take the time to check him out first. He liked that. The cruiser remained on his tail even as he made a right hand turn into another main causeway where the speed limit was higher. He rose for it, and the cruiser followed safely.

Brock rolled his palm over the gear shift, using his signal but weaving around other vehicles just shy of driving dangerously. His eyes flicked to his mirrors to see if he had lost the interest of the officer, but the cruiser was almost casually keeping a low profile but still keeping close enough to him that he knew he was being tailed.

By now, Rollins had to have typed in the license plate and realized the man in the driver’s seat was not the owner of the car. Still, the cruiser was patient as they had a merry little jaunt around some of the city streets.

“Behind the passenger-side seat,” he ordered the Soldier. He felt the subtle shift of the car as the asset complied and settled with a confident spread-leg resting position. “You’re to wait for my signal. Understood?”

“Yes,” the Soldier replied, blue eyes flicking from him to back at the cruiser still following them.

“What are your parameters?”

“Restrain, minimal injury, no killing,” the asset replied. There was a subtle hitch to the Soldier’s shoulders, and he knew it was a sign of something as close to excitement for action.

Brock pulled up to the red light and glanced both ways. His eyes flicked once to the side mirror before he pushed the stick out of neutral to first and laid down some rubber on the roadway as he simply and purposefully ran the red light.

The cruiser lights flared immediately, a blare of sound before the officer cut it off so as not to draw unnecessary attention to this. It was the only reason he didn’t bother to see just how speedy this little racer could go, but he pulled over into a deserted grocery store parking lot and came to a park. He didn’t turn off the engine, just left in neutral with the parking brake on. The engine purred.

Instead, he made himself comfortable in his seat as officer Rollins emerged from the cruiser and flicked on a flashlight. The man walked with a caution that only slightly hid the officer’s interest in this particular confrontation.

Rumlow rolled down the window at the light tap from the butt of the flashlight and flicked Rollins a confident smirk. “Good evening, officer. Having an uneventful evening?”

“License and registration,” Rollins said, ignoring his pleasantries.

He took his time getting the registration from the glove box, letting the officer see that there wasn’t a weapon in there. He handed over the paperwork and then made a showy point of fishing around for his wallet and handed over his fake identification.

“Have you been drinking?” Rollins was pretending to examine his driver’s license.

“Nope.”

“Drugs or alcohol in the vehicle?”

“If there is, I haven’t found it,” he replied smartly and opened the ashtray to be sure.

“Are you always a smart ass?”

“At every opportunity,” he said with a smirk. “Nice scars.”

Rollins’ gaze lifted from the license to stare at him. The scarring stood out pink against the man’s skin, both the surgical ones and the long lines from where a knife had made swift work of the man’s visage. It was clear that plastic surgery had been involved to lessened how obvious it was, but it also made the officer’s expression constantly stern and flat looking.

“Stay here,” Rollins said and walked away to the cruiser.

Brock watched the man’s progress in the rear-view mirror even as the Soldier sat up from being curled in the back seat. “Eye on the prize, Soldier,” he murmured and the Soldier turned to look out the tinted back window to study the officer. “Like those scars of his?”

The Winter Soldier didn’t reply. He doubted that the asset had gotten a good look in the first place, but they’d be seeing them close up soon enough. He intended to make contact and at worse, he had an extra pair of strong arms to help him bury a body. Either way, he figured it was a win.

After a few minutes, Rollins was returning from his vehicle, and the Soldier disappeared in the backseat again. He rested his elbow on the edge of the window and regarded the officer who handed him back his paperwork before holding out his ticket. He dropped his license and registration to the passenger’s side seat and ignored the ticket.

“What do you say to a drink?”

“I’d say you better take your ticket and don’t let me find you around here again,” Rollins said simply.

“How about you suck my dick?”

“How about you keep your mouth shut before it gets you into trouble?” Rollins was quickly souring but still somehow able to maintain a grudging respect in the face of his sass.

Rumlow leaned into his seat comfortably but still didn’t take the ticket that was practically in the car window now. “You give me that ticket, officer, and I’ll see you, your officer father and your retired officer grandfather are all laid out in the same shallow ditch. Let your disappointed mother weep with joy over her losses of a bunch of assholes from her life…”

Rollins had a gun drawn fast, and he admired that in a man. He noted that the officer didn’t hold the trigger with a finger, but rested it against the side of it. So, the man had good gun control on top of patience, the ability to act nice even when it was clear that the guy hated everyone and everything. How far was this man willing to go for freedom?

“Get out of the car, _sir_ ,” Rollins growled.

“Oh, there’s no need for pleasantries, you ugly ass-end of a gorilla,” Rumlow said as he clicked open his seat belt. “I’m going to wipe the cement with your face, but not even that will make you pretty again.”

“Let me see your hands,” Rollins barked. “And get out of the damn car, you dickbag. We’re going for a drive.”

Rumlow showed his hands and allowed the officer to open the door. He stepped out nice and easy, but his expression was smug even as his new found friend grabbed his shoulder roughly and slammed him belly first into the side of the car.

“One of my better first dates,” he said.

“Shut your damn mouth,” Rollins replied and jammed a foot between his legs to spread them. He could hear the gun returning to its holster. “Hands on the roof of the car and don’t move them.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Rumlow sassed as he did as he was told. His hands tapped out a beat against the metal, humming as he did so. He felt the officer’s hands on his legs frisking him. “Right leg, calf holster.”

Rollins hand paused and went to where he directed where there was indeed a small handgun. “You got a license for a concealed weapon?”

“Yep,” he said with great relish. “Shall I pop back in the car and rustle up my paperwork for you?”

“No, you stay right there,” Rollins replied. “Don’t move or I’ll find somewhere particularly unpleasant for you.”

He watched the officer make a move to go to the car, and he knew for a fact that Rollins was breaking officer protocol. His hands changed the beat of his music, his head bobbing a little with the rhythm that he set. “How about you secure me first and then you can dig through my ride?”

If there was one thing he didn’t want Rollins to find, it was the Soldier. That was a major no-no that anyone lived to see the asset’s face, masked or not. He was not getting in trouble with the high ups of HYDRA over a recruitment attempt on his part. Actually, he was willing to risk their wrath but on his terms, not because a police officer was digging in the car that had been lent to him for a mission. No one but him had to realize or care for the details.

Rollins came up behind him, and he purposefully swayed his hips as his waist was patted down. Yes indeed, there was his Glock there and his favourite bowie knife too. The officer didn’t appear to be surprised and continued to frisk him silently, taking his weapons.

“Am I still just charged with running a red light, officer?” He couldn’t help himself. This was just too much fun.

“Dangerous driving, speeding, and if being a smart ass was a crime, I’ll plumb you with that too,” Rollins growled at him, still searching for concealed weapons along his arms. “Oh and uttering threats.”

Rumlow grumped a sound. “Is that all?”

Rollins didn’t bother to comment again, and instead, he could hear the jingle of chain that indicated handcuffs. His hands changed the beat against the roof of the car and it only stopped when the officer reached for his hands on the metal.

“You missed a weapon,” he pointed out. He felt Rollins hesitate behind him. He turned his head to regard the officer, their faces relatively close together. “I have a loaded one ready and waiting for use.”

They stared at each other, measuring one another. The officer’s facial scarring showed in the dim light cast by the parking lot luminescence. “Your worthless dick doesn’t count as a weapon,” Rollins finally settled with, clearly calling his bluff.

“No really, it’s impressive. The best damn weapon in the world, and it’s in my possession,” he replied, leaning closer to the officer. “Do you want to see it? It’s one of a kind.”

The fingers of his left hand tapped lightly against the metal of the roof of the car, barely making a sound but it didn’t have to. There was little sound that wouldn’t carry to the enhanced ears waiting for the command, primed from instruction of his previous tapping, reaffirming the order that he had already established. It was time for the show to be over and for them to conduct the real interview of the night.

Rollins twisted his right wrist and force it behind his back to apply the cuff to his flesh. The officer was busy sliding the metal on and missed the door on the other side of the vehicle opening until the Soldier was already out and jumping the length of the car to be on their side of it. It seemed impossible that anyone of the Soldier’s height and build could land without a sound, but the asset managed it beautifully.

“Of course… you’ve already met my weapon before,” Rumlow said when Rollins froze behind him. “He’s the reason you have metal plates in your cheeks and you have to lie about the fact that you only have fifty percent vision in your left eye.”

He suddenly elbowed Rollins in the face. The distraction of the Soldier and no doubt all bad memories that came with that experience kept the officer slow to respond. There was no fear when Rollins stumbled back from his assault, and he turned to face the man who stared at the asset as if torn between wanting to call back-up and unable to believe good fortune.

“You’re under arrest,” Rollins growled. It was a sound that came with joyous retribution. “Both of you.”

Rumlow looked over at the Soldier who was impassive to the sheer notion of arrest. That’s what one got threatening the world’s longest serving prisoner of war. “You heard the man. We’re under arrest.” He slapped his palm against the side of the car door.

The Winter Soldier moved two steps, and, with a sweep of a foot and punch to the chest, the asset leveled Rollins to the pavement. He tossed the pair of cuffs to his current weapon and the Soldier knocked the officer’s head back and then flipped Rollins stomach down. The cuffs went on with satisfying clicks as Rollins gasped for air and blinked from being momentarily stunned.

“Right, toss in him the back of the cruiser. We have work to do,” he told the asset, who moved to comply.

He only moved over to the cruiser in order to open the rear door and allow the Soldier to toss Rollins in like a sack of potatoes. He glanced at the asset and gestured with his head back to the muscle car as he shut the door on the cruiser. “Follow me discreetly and we’ll dump the cruiser and finish the interview in a private place.”

“Follow discreetly,” the Soldier agreed and prowled away.

***

_... the radio was a distant sound as he stepped out of the cruiser and glanced at his partner and then to the abandoned apartment building. This building was a place they were both familiar with, having broken up their share of drug-deals and calling in homicide officers when this part of the neighbourhood’s colours showed through. It smelled like piss and mildew..._

_...they were climbing the cement steps, ignoring the spray painted tags, the puddles of old blood, used needles, and trash that piled in the corners. Their shoes echoed on the stairs as they ascended and Gilbert made a sound of disgust at the amount of pigeon droppings on the next landing…_

_...two lands up and fresh evidence of a scuffle. The blood hadn’t finished drying,but aside from glancing at each other, he simply took the lead to the next landing. They were four floors up and boarded up doors had been kicked in. More blood, just as fresh as down below…_

_“If this turns into another homicide, I’m taking my holidays early,” Gilbert said with a weariness that came from too long hours. He said nothing. Gilbert approached the second kicked in door and peered inside..._

_...a black nondescript van was pulling up to the building. Men in nondescript black uniforms climbed out and gathered around a central person. They looked pretty damn official by his eyes. More than that, they looked heavily armed…_

_“You hear about a training exercise at this block?” It wasn’t unusual to miss a memo. It was unusual for one to be in this area of town. It was also unusual for him to realize how quiet it was when his partner was a talker. “Gilbert?”_

_...Rollins ignored the black-clad team coming up the stairs and eased his way over to the door that he had seen Gilbert disappear into, and he froze in the doorway at the sight that was before him. It was like nothing that he had witnessed before, and it made his skin crawl under his dark blue uniform, momentarily shocked from reacting when in all rights he had every reason to..._

_...The room was clean. Rooms in this building were never clean, not with squatters breaking in and using each one for whoring, drugs, or sleeping in. This one was cleaned as if someone actually lived there, though there was no furniture to speak of. Instead, the room was marked with the spatters of blood across the dirty walls and a pile of bodies in a corner of the room, neatly stacked one on top of the other. Most of them were negroes that no doubt frequented the area..._

_...Directly across from the door were six other bodies, but they were sitting against the wall, arms neatly folded in their laps, legs straightened out and heads propped by half of their scalps having been sliced back and nailed to the wall. All six had had their eyeballs removed, and it was clear that something had been carved into their foreheads with a knife based on the blood that ran down their slack pale faces…_

_...There was the small blonde kid who had gone missing from the hospital in the middle of the night on the far left, hospital gown blooded but obvious. Next to the kid was that British businessman who had gone missing twenty-four hours ago from a conference. A negro garbage man was propped up next, dirty blue overalls stained black from blood and that explained the blood in on the landings. He didn’t recognized the Japanese guy, but it was probably an international student based on the name brand clothing..._

_...The only thing living was propping up Gilbert’s corpse, the sound of a broken neck being jerked and jarred back into place filling the air. Rollins was going for his gun, shaky and revolted and yet somehow felt wrong for disturbing this brutally morbid scene. He was raising his pistol while the dark-haired man nailed Gilbert’s head upright by the scalp and set down his partner’s eyes with a reverence that made him want to vomit..._

_“Vous êtes libre, Dernier,” the murdering psychopath whispered softly. Then the language changed along with the posture. “I’ve got them all, Steve. We’re forever immortalized and together.”_

_“You’re under arrest,” he suddenly said, his finger poised on the trigger..._

_“Monty, I set you on look-out,” the dark-haired man said, looking down the line of dead. “Next time speak up when we’re under attack.”_

_...He realized that the marks on the men’s foreheads were letters carved in. No, not letters… **names**. His finger tightened on the trigger as he maintained his position at the door in case this went any more south than dealing with a mass murdering psychopath completely off the guy’s medication..._

_“Get on the ground with your hands on the back of your head,” he snapped, for now beating back the strangeness of the situation, the impossibility that Gilbert was now part of this morbid line-up. “Do it now!”_

_...Slowly, the murderer rose with smooth motions that seemed so out of place with the stink of death and turned to face him. The word ‘Bucky’ had been carved into the man’s own forehead, blood having dried against pale skin, but the blue eyes that stared at him were full of a fire that stilled his finger on the trigger..._

_...Rollins still pulled it a second later, watching the bullet impact in the man’s chest as the distance between them closed. He held his ground and fired again, hearing an odd ring of bullet hitting metal before he shifted to the side to avoid the slash of a blooded knife at his face. It was only then he realized he had been forced to step more into the room, and he hit the doorframe as the left hand swung up and impacted solidly with his face..._

_...White hot pain burst across his features, blinding him as he went down. A second impact was felt on his face before the world went dark amid the bark of guns, the yell of men, and his last blurry image was of six men lined up on a wall, their deaths and names immortalized on their pale slack-jawed faces..._

__

***

Jack Rollins opened his eyes and stared at the peeling paint of the ceiling, but he didn’t shift even as he became aware of a spring from the bed he was laid out on poking him in the small of his back. He was far more aware of the rough slide of rope around his bare wrists and equally bare ankles. He twitched his arms which were set above his head and found immediate resistance, but a twitch of his legs did not result in the same tension.

It smelled like mildew and piss. Two of the few senses that hadn’t been compromised was his sense of smell or taste. It just happened to give him a headache more often than not.

He took stock of his situation and what he knew, which was very little. He surmised that the instigation had been deliberate, but he had no idea who the punk was. He knew who the masked man was; he’d never forget those blue eyes for as long as he still lived, which he admitted might not be too long if that psychopath was involved.

He slowly lifted his head to look around the room, and he found it to be a small bedroom where the paint was both peeling but showed evidence of sprayed painted tags. He could think of at least ten buildings that had the similar colour and abandonment look to them, and all of them were in the most poor areas of town. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he suspected he knew exactly where he was.

Aside from the bed, there was a table with only three legs, the fourth broken off and long forgotten. There was a chair that had a man occupying it. He took him a moment to focus with his good eye and frowned deeply at the sight that greeted him.

The driver of the vehicle he had pulled over was sitting with the psychopath between parted legs and was currently brushing the little murderer’s hair with the utmost care. He watched with a tip of his head to keep the pair in his better line of sight and felt angry disgust well up inside of him as the psychopath’s hair was neatly parted, brushed up high and tied off into pig tails that bounced with a single motion of that crazed head.

“At ease,” the driver said and patted a thigh and the psychopath came to rest at the exact location, eyes closing and pretending to sleep. Or maybe asleep, but he found he didn’t care. Instead, he met the amused eyes that found him. “Rise and shine, officer Rollins.”

“I’m adding kidnapping and assault to your list of offenses,” he growled. He was perhaps more incensed by the smirk that greeted his words. “And your little pet is under arrest for capital murder, tampering with bodies, assault on a police officer, kidnapping and…”

“Whoa, whoa, no one is getting arrested,” the driver said. “Maybe we should start with introductions, hmm? It’s only polite, and we’re all civilized men here.”

Jack narrowed his eyes and tugged on the bonds on his wrists as if to point that most civilized company didn’t tie-up people. “You first, dickbag, and your little murder boyfriend too.”

The driver only showed amusement and leaned back in the chair. The psychopath hadn’t moved and still looked strangely vulnerable with the pigtails that swayed with a pass of the driver’s hand over them. “I’m Brock Rumlow, STRIKE agent of SHIELD. More importantly, I’m an agent of a different, far more suitable organization.”

Rollins knew he was baited to ask about this ‘special organization’, but he only glared. He wasn’t going fishing for answers, and this man, Rumlow, was either going to give them to him or not.

“Have you ever heard of the organization called HYDRA?” Rumlow didn’t seemed miffed by his unresponsiveness.

“The Nazi group?” His grandfather had served in the Second World War before becoming a police officer. There had been more than a few quiet tales of the Nazis and he remembered a few mentions of the group that Captain America in particular had gone up against. They were some death cult who split off from the Nazis or something, but they had been routed and killed off. “They were the part of war that Captain America personally took care of.”

“Cut off one head, two more shall takes its place,” Rumlow said with a seriousness that immediately had his attention. “Schmidt died with unfulfilled promises, but HYDRA lives. So long as one man, woman or child believes in the principle, it can’t die or be defeated.”

“You some kind of Neo-Nazi?” He would have to look up if there was a law against that to nail the man with that too. Asshole deserved it; maybe he could pin some hate-crime shit.

Rumlow chuckled and ran a hand along the shoulders of the psychopath. “HYDRA was founded on the belief that mankind was incapable of handling their own freedom. Mankind should surrender its ideology of freedom and accept the rule of a fair unbiased force, something that reads the potential of every man, woman and child, their choices, their futures and their pasts to carve out those scum that fill the streets and suck up the resources of our planet.”

He had to wonder which of the pair was actually the more insane here. He raised an eyebrow at the talk, playing it over because he thought it might be good evidence to use later in a court of law, assuming he lived to see the other side of this. There was no such thing as an unbiased force after all. Someone somewhere was always manipulating the way.

“You should go into politics after your petty life of kidnapping and assault,” he said and twisted his wrists in the ropes.

“How many people have you put away into jail who will just come out again to repeat their crimes? How many bodies have you watched them bag for being at the wrong place at the wrong time? How many people get stepped on just for another slice of the pie?” Rumlow was watching him intently, and there was something honest about that gaze.

Rollins shifted on the bed, rolling onto his side and wiggling up so that he could get his hands down to his belly. It meant that he had his back to the other man and the little weird pet. “We both know those are deeply ingrained societal problems.”

“Born in difficult circumstances. I get it,” Rumlow said, making no move to stop him from picking at the knots holding him to the headboard. “Society is shit. The weak are pawns for the strong, maybe just a new body shield.”

“You don’t know shit,” he replied as he strained to his fingers to have the right angle to pull. “What could you possibly want with me with all this talk of freedom?”

“I want you to join HYDRA,” Rumlow said simply.

Rollins snorted. “You want me to be a Neo-Nazi?”

There was a shift behind his back, but he couldn’t lever himself up on the side with his better eye, but the creak of the chair was telling. He picked faster at the ropes, just starting to loosen them when a hand made of metal seized his bound wrists tightly. He couldn’t help but freeze, more from the surprise that anyone could have a hand that looked like that. It was impressive technology.

“You’ve met him before when he punched your face in,” Rumlow said softly. “He doesn’t have a name. He’s a weapon, deployed by HYDRA in the most difficult of circumstances. You won’t have heard of him, but I’m sure you’ve seen his work in the history books.”

“He murdered my partner,” Rollins said, his face turned to stare into those blue eyes. Unlike last time, there wasn’t much in the way of fire. Pigtails swayed back and forth like branches on a very ugly tree. “He’s insane.”

The chair creaked again, but this time, he heard the tread of boots on the floor approaching the bed. “Did you know your partner was dirty?”

“Excuse me?”

“Gilbert, he was dirty. He’d been taking drug money for years, couple of bills at a time before it hit evidence,” Rumlow said. “Not the kind of guy I would want to be working with.”

Jack felt himself flush and had to keep himself from wincing at the headache that was coming on above the usual dull throb that was his life. He had suspected Gilbert, but he hadn’t had any evidence and wasn’t about to go sniffing into the other man’s business. He was a police officer more because it was a family tradition than a real want. He liked his work, but he had always wanted to do take his skills elsewhere.

The man with no name eased away, drawn by some signal that he couldn’t see. “You gonna let him finish me off?”

“Let’s not get away from the topic at hand,” Rumlow said. He resumed picking at the ropes working through the knots even as he felt the other man’s eyes on him. “What do you believe in, Officer? Could you believe in a world where dirty cops, dirty criminals, dirty politicians all got what was coming to them? People who want nothing more than to live their lives being able to do so without having to consider what sort of maneuvering the people around them might do.”

If it was too good to be true, it probably was.

He wasn’t exactly embittered, but his life had taken a very different turn after he had been reduced to transferring from Narcotics to Traffic because he couldn’t do that job anymore. He was lucky they let him behind a car, but he knew it was only because he had paid his doctor well to not mention about the damage to his eye. He lived in pain almost constantly, whether it was headaches, twitching or the inability to chew his food because his jaw locked up.

Honest work were for men like him. He wanted to do his job, go home, have a beer and watch some television.

Whoever this Rumlow guy was, he knew he was being watched closely. “I hear the guy who shot your father is out. How many years did he serve for reducing your old man to a paraplegic?”

“What do you know,” Rollins growled. He and his old man weren’t close, but he respected his father enough to know the day that his father lost his legs was the day every hope of being a good cop had been laid on him. “The system is flawed, but it does what it has to.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Jack paused in picking the last of the knots and turned his head to look up at the dark-haired driver standing nearby, watching him. Did he believe it? No. No, he didn’t believe that people who did bad things were given the time and justice their victims expected. No, he didn’t entirely believe he was making a difference.

He turned his head back and worked the last knot open, pulling the rope and freeing himself from being attached to the headboard. He twisted around and sat up slowly, aware that doing so too fast would result his head spinning with nausia. He pulled his bound legs up and rested his bound wrists on them. He stared at Rumlow, and he thought for the first time that someone might actually understand.

“I think the system could be improved upon, but bureaucrats, judges, and laws aren’t there to support us enough to do a good job,” he said finally.

Rumlow leaned towards him, setting hands on the dirty mattress next to his hip. “If you could stop a crime from happening, would you?”

“I… yes, of course. Who wouldn’t?”

“Join HYDRA, and you can see a world where crime stops before it happens. Better, you can help build it, Jack,” Brock said, determined earnest expression making more of an impact on him than it should. The guy’s words were like honey.

“How?”

Rumlow gave him a smile that was welcoming and charismatic. “Use your gun, your skills, and your know-how to be something more than what you are.”

Rollins scowled. “Your little murder boyfriend fixed me so that’s unlikely. I’m not on a desk job because I blew my savings on getting a doctor to lie.”

“Join HYDRA, and give people the freedom they deserve, Jack,” Rumlow said, ignoring his statement about the unnamed man. “Prove to them and me that two punches to the face, a knife across your skin, two plates and lying through your teeth to keep your job didn’t end your potential to change the world.”

“It didn’t, and it won’t,” he growled.

Something in his tone clearly satisfied Brock because the other man backed off and walked away to sit in the chair again. With only an almost absent flick of the fingers, the unnamed man drifted down to settle back between Rumlow’s parted legs, little pigtails still bobbing like some sick schoolgirl.

He remained on the filthy mattress but watched with interest as Rumlow reached out and stroked the other man’s head. He sat up straighter when the room briefly filled with the sound of a zipper descending followed far too closely by the wet sound of lips on flesh. He turned his head so his good eye focused entirely on the fact that the little asshole was blowing Rumlow right here in front of him.

“You met the asset under unfortunate circumstances,” Rumlow said conversationally as if there weren’t wet lips on the man’s erection. “He’d disappeared after a mission, and we lost track of him for three weeks. It was only when someone reported him in a homeless shelter that we began to seriously track him, but his programming was haywire.”

“Programming?” Somehow, he managed to keep from glancing at that bobbing head and swaying pigtails. Rumlow issued a soft moan to draw his attention upwards again.

“Later, Jack. Let me finish.” He didn’t know if that was to indicate imminent orgasm or the finish the story that had already begun. “He slipped away, but we had a bead on him here and there. Then he came here and began to assemble a kill count. That’s when you encountered him, vicious and uncontrolled. We took him down and now… he’s pliant and obeys again.”

Jack’s eyes flicked down, noting the small roll of Rumlow’s hips that matched the rise and fall of this ‘asset’s’ head. A part of him was disgusted to be exposed to this, but another part was intrigued all the same. His own trousers tightened, and he shifted his bound ankles and began to pick at the knots on his wrists.

“He ruined your career, but I saved your life back then,” Rumlow murmured with a hint of increased breath. “My CO wanted to put a bullet in your brain, but I convinced him not to.”

“Don’t expect me to thank you for that, you ass,” Rollins growled, and it was suddenly feeling a little too hot in here.

“I’m going to give you your life back, repayment for your struggles, for showing me your resilience to keep going,” Rumlow said with that charm that he suspected many had fallen for. He didn’t want to be one of them.

The sound of sucking increased and he moved uncomfortably until there was a hiss from Rumlow and the asset’s shoulders twitched. Brock had a hand on the back of the other man’s head, a soft but blatant refusal to allow the asset to spit. Rumlow wore a smirk before the expression softened as both of their gaze slipped down to the pig-tailed weapon.

“Him next,” Rumlow said.

Jack blanched and shoved himself backwards towards the headboard. “No,” he snapped, but the asset was moving towards him, tied hair looking ridiculous but eyes all fire now. He tried to keep his legs up to hide the erection in his trousers, but the bastard was _strong_ and wrenched his legs down and then sat on them.

“Look into his eyes, Jack,” Rumlow said with a confident smirk. “Look into the face that is going to change the world for the better.”

“Call him off,” Jack snarled as his trouser button was torn off and hit the wall next to his head. “Rumlow, I mean it…”

“Think of this as his apology for hurting your head,” Brock said lazily, watching the struggle with a keen interest. It wasn’t a lecher’s interest either, but the interest of a man who wanted to see the asset perform well under order.

There was suddenly a hot, wet and eager mouth on his erection, and Jack couldn’t help the cry of surprise that left him. He tried to squirm away, but his legs were pinned. He tried to ram his fists into the other man’s head, but metal fingers caught the rope between them and so easily forced them down to his chest. All the while, that mouth rose and fell over his dick and blue eyes stared fire and untold promises of violence upon him.

He hitched a breath and stopped fighting, staring into the eyes of a creature that was doing this simply because there was an order to do so. There was no pleasure flitting across the asset’s face; instead, there were promises behind those blue eyes.

Promises for a future. Promises of blood. Promises of order. Promises of his death. Promises of a new life. Promises of a new world.

It took his breath away, and he shuddered a breath. Jack Rollins found himself believing. He wanted to be revolted, but something jammed in his brain to prevent it.

His hips moved in time with the mouth on him, pleasure snaking up his body but increasing the volume of the ever present throb of a headache behind his eyes. He turned his head so that his bad eye took in the asset, hazing in parts but clear in others, broken and beautiful and pure. His fingers found one of those pig tails each and there was no resistance, even if he kept his arms clear so that he could watch the asset work.

He could tell his own progress by the pounding behind his eyes, the twist of pain in his cheekbones and the pull of the skin of his scalp. He panted and thrust eagerly, staring into the eyes of promise and groaned loud and throaty. The faint scrape of teeth was so surprising that he arched and came right then and there.

Just like Rumlow, his grip on the asset’s hair was firm and refused to allow the other man time to spit. No, they had worked together on that, and it was just a small amount owed to the little psychopath.

“Off,” Rumlow said, and the asset broke his grip and left him. “I think that was apology accepted, hmm?” He watched as Brock’s hand patted the asset on the head. “Go and check on our friend, will you?”

He was left alone with the other agent, self-conscious of the fact that he was still hanging out of his trousers, but if Rumlow cared, the man didn’t show it. No, it seemed that this HYDRA agent was busy rooting through a backpack and produced a vial and syringe. Great, he was going to be drugged and dumped in the streets somewhere.

“I’m still giving you a ticket,” he gritted out. “And prostitution is illegal.”

“Really, and here I thought we’d just had a moment,” Rumlow replied with a smirk. He eyed the strange green liquid that was pulled into the syringe. He didn’t know any sedatives that were green.

Jack shifted his bound hands down and tucked himself back into his trousers and zipped them up. He’d lost the button, but he didn’t glance around for it. Instead, he pushed his shoulders up to sit higher on the bed. He suspected that this guy was not going to kill him. Not yet anyway. He waited in silence as the vial was put down and the needle changed.

“You wondering what this is?”

“No.”

“You’re such a fucking liar, but at least you’re good at it,” Rumlow said and approached him. He eyed the other man, but he wasn’t just jabbed with the stuff. “This is a little something that’s been cooking on the backburner for about ten years. It speeds up cell generation and has shown to promote healing from injury.”

It sounded too good to be true. It probably was. Maybe it was cyanide in liquid form. Or fertilizer.

He stiffened when Rumlow was suddenly sitting in his lap and it was only then that he realized the guy hadn’t bothered to zip up. His eyes narrowed but didn’t put up as much resistance as he thought he should when his arms were seized and pulled down. The light wasn’t great in here, but Rumlow still used a dirty old shoelace to wrap around his upper arm like a tourniquet.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” He just had to ask.

“Well, I’m no phlebotomist, if that’s what you’re asking,” Rumlow rumbled and looked at his arm. “Maybe we should ask our friend in the other room. He shoots up enough.”

Rollins glanced toward the door, but he couldn’t see the asset. He didn’t think he wanted that thing wielding a needle around him any more than he wanted Rumlow to, but he still sat for it as the other man poked at his arm. There was a nice fat vein rising, and if he had any apprehension, it wasn’t the time or the place.

He didn’t even twitch when the needle slipped under his skin. They both looked down at his arm as Rumlow searched for his vein and they waited for a flash. It was a damn good miss.

“This has to go in the vein?”

“Yeah or your arm will fall off,” Rumlow replied with only slight distraction. He couldn’t tell if the guy was joking or serious.

“I think you’re too deep,” he said, trying to be helpful.

“That’s what she said,” Rumlow said and paused to smirk at him. They then glared at each because that was _not_ funny and he was not going to have to explain to work why he had a huge bruise on his arm.

He was not exactly worried, but it looked like a big vein by his eyes. “Can you stop sawing on my vein and hit the damn thing?”

“I’m trying, shut your ugly mouth,” Rumlow snarled.

He shifted under Brock’s weight. “Seriously, you’re a piece of shit, stop messing around. It’s to the right.” Rumlow redirected the needle. “The other right, dickbag.”

“The correct terminology is medial and lateral, you putts,” Rumlow said with a smirk.

“You know what, fuck you, Rumlow,” Rollins snapped with all the frustration he could muster.

There was suddenly a flash of red in the hub of the needle, and both of them sighed in relief. The tourniquet was released and Rumlow injected this strange green foreign liquid into his veins. His arm tingled and he shifted other hand over to hold off his vein when the needle was removed.. He didn’t protest when Rumlow eased off of him.

He twisted his wrists in the rope, ignoring the swimming tingling in his fingers until it was also happening in his shoulders. Then his neck. Soon enough, he tingled all over, and he waited to just go into cardiac arrest with the sound of Rumlow’s laughter sending him off to the pearly white gates.

Instead, the generalized tingling just continued and he busied himself picking at the ropes around his wrists and then his ankles, freeing himself and suspiciously wondering why there was no protest. He was being watched, and he stared right back.

“About time,” Rumlow said and then gestured with a hand. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

He rose and followed more to know where the other man had gone than out of curiosity to what he was going to be shown. He walked down the short hallway into an open room and he stopped dead. He knew this place, and his gaze flicked to Brock who was surveying out the windows and checking the door to make certain it was locked. This was the room with the stack of bodies and the six men lined up with their scalps pinned to the wall.

The little psychopath was there too but hidden in a dark corner of the room, blue eyes finding him. The only other occupant was a man whose trial he had sat in on, the very man who had shot his father twice, one of which reduced his old man to a wheelchair. He knew the guy had gotten out of prison for good behaviour, but he also knew that the sentence had been a lesser charge anyway for agreeing to take the stand against a bigger fish in the drug trade.

He walked deeper into the room, suppressing the scowl that wanted to form on his lips. The guy was sitting where Gilbert had been placed, he noted, and he glared at Rumlow for the stupid sick joke.

Instead, he found a Glock and a combat knife being offered to him. “You have forty-five minutes,” Rumlow said simply. “After that, no guarantees you’ll be alone.”

Rollins felt himself taking both instruments of death and holding them. “Forty-five minutes to do what?”

“To start to build a better world,” Rumlow murmured and looked to the asset. “Forty-five minutes and then you’re out. Rendezvous at Fifth and Pine.”

“Are you telling me to kill this punk?” Rollins wanted to be offended, but he didn’t deny he had seriously considered it. “I’m a cop.”

Rumlow seemed nonplussed to his argument. “You can do whatever you want, Jack. Kill him. Cut him up. Make him cry. You have forty-five minutes to let your imagination run wild with you, just don’t leave DNA evidence behind. You wanna rape him, use a party hat.”

He looked between Rumlow, the asset, the weapons in his grip and the stirring drug dealer on the floor. It was too good to be true, which meant that it probably was. He had forty-five minutes to do whatever he wanted, and his jaw slowly set as he stared at the asshole on the floor as understanding dawned on him. The asset was staying to witness but also to not allow any disturbances.

“Forty-five minutes,” he said softly, tucking the Glock into the back of his trousers. He knew it wasn’t supposed to go there but he didn’t care. His body tingled and the ever present headache was dissipating. It was the first time since the accident he felt any kind of relief like that. “Hurry up and get out then.”

“One more thing, Jack,” Rumlow said and held out a business card to him. “When you’ve thought about my offer, give me a ring. I’ll know you’re ready to fight the good fight and win instead of drowning in little failures.”

Rollins took the business card, and it looked authentic. The SHIELD emblem was emblazoned in the right corner, and the name given to him was confirmed. Brock Rumlow, STRIKE agent. He turned it over and even in the dim light, he could see the black and red emblem of a skull with tentacle-like arms. His eyes found Rumlow’s as he tucked the card away into his back pocket.

“Oh and if you lose that, that whole promise about a shallow ditch will stand,” Brock said before the door to the abandoned apartment opened. He was left with no doubt that it was a true threat.

“As long as it isn’t you trying to hit my vein again, I think I can handle you,” he replied as the door closed, leaving him in relative darkness. He turned to the groaning dealer and looked at the asset watching him from the corner.

Those pig-tails still looked absolutely ridiculous. Now where the hell were his socks and boots?

***

Jack sat at his desk and lazily regarded the business card, his lips pursing as he considered it. When he turned it over, it was blank and thick white paper. Nothing more than a SHIELD agent, huh?

It had been two weeks since his encounter with Brock Rumlow and the guy’s amazing fellatio murder boyfriend. It had been two weeks since Thomas “Juggler” Williamson had been found in four garbage bags in pieces. It had been one week since he had woken up with no pain in his skull and his vision had improved to what it was before the accident. It had been two days since he had started to seriously question his role handing out traffic tickets.

He rose from his chair and padded down the rows of officers starting their day. He smiled and offered greetings where he bothered to and walked into the staffroom. It was decidedly empty, mostly because a new pot of coffee was still brewing and there was no point to staring at it hoping for faster brewing time. He flicked the business card between his fingers, staring at the name.

Rollins shifted his hand out and flipped the lights in the lunchroom off. There was a little light coming in from the main workroom, and he flipped the business card over.

The red skull and tentacle arms leered at him in the dull light. He ran a thumb over it, feeling for the illusion as he flipped the lights back on and was greeted with only the white back of the business card.

Jack got himself a cup of fresh brewed coffee, returned to his desk, picked up his phone and called. Two rings and the line connected. “I want in.”

“I knew you were meant for more than handing out traffic tickets,” Rumlow purred on the other end of the line. “I’ll fax over paperwork you have to fill out.”

“You want the fax number?”

“No, I already have it,” Rumlow replied smoothly. “Stay by the fax machine.”

“Right.”

“Oh and Jack?” Was Rumlow sounding amused now?

“What?”

“Welcome to the team.” Rumlow rung up without further pleasantries.

Jack went to stand by the fax machine. He still intended to mail Rumlow’s traffic violation for payment; he’d send it with the SHIELD resume that was coming through on the fax machine.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Murder boyfriend_ is 100% Lauralots fault. I can't help but use it at every opportunity now.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read my work! Any comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


End file.
